Pas de deux
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Arthur Dayne wins the tourney at Harrenhal, and the court has a different scandal on their hands when he crowns Princess Elia the Queen of Love and Beauty.


**Pas de deux**

* * *

He's not going to crown her. He'll win the joust, because of course he will, but he won't crown her. Of little else is she so certain.

His eye has wandered, to put it delicately, and he has not been subtle about it either. It was innocent, at first, when the girl had wept at his song, and then turned into something much different. He's enraptured by her for a reason that Elia has tried and failed to comprehend.

Lyanna Stark is pretty enough, she supposes, in a wild, coltish kind of way, but she's still half a child, a wolf pup barely out of its den. Only Robert Baratheon seems to be as taken with her as Rhaegar, which, as her betrothed, is at least understandable. But Rhaegar… _him_ Elia has no explanation for.

The final set of jousters comes as a surprise to no one: Rhaegar, Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, Leo Tyrell. Ser Barristan beats Tyrell handily, leaving Rhaegar against Ser Arthur. It's far from an unfamiliar set, they having battled many times over the years. The last time she'd seen one such bout was Lord Robert's tourney three years ago held in the memory of Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana. Arthur had nearly won then, battling Rhaegar through a dozen rounds before conceding defeat.

Even now, she wonders whether he had truly been bested, or whether he'd done it on purpose. It's a common rumor, that the Kingsguard don't often try their hardest lest they injure their future sovereign. She knows Rhaegar is a consummate jouster, but she'd also seen Arthur in countless tourneys in Dorne, and he'd gone undefeated in them all despite going up against plenty of consummate jousters there, too.

It's irrelevant, really. Whether legitimately or on purpose, he would be on the losing end today, she has no doubt, and she gets the honor of being jilted in front of half the world. Rhaegar's looking at the girl now, too, atop his black mount, and Elia clasps her hands in her lap so tightly her fingers turn purple. Not even Ashara's soothing touch does anything to mitigate her simmering anger.

At the sound of the herald's trumpet, destrier and sand steed come together round after round. While the matchup had not surprised her, this longevity does. At Lord Robert's tourney, the joust had had more of a frolicking atmosphere, two friends competing in good humor.

This, though…the hits are harder, Arthur's posture is rigid, tension drenches the combatants like a pall. She can see their faces through the slits in their helms, a kind of confusion in Rhaegar's and conviction in Arthur's. What the reason might be for it, however, she can't fathom. To her knowledge, there's been nothing to put them at odds, so why would there discord now?

The sixth round is what sends the crowd to frenzied whispers. Rhaegar's lance is a hair off-kilter, a weakness Arthur pounces on: a resounding crack, a grunt of pain, then Rhaegar is flung from his saddle. With that, the herald announces that the final contest will consist of the realm's two most revered warriors, Kingsguard against Kingsguard.

Arthur removes his helm and dismounts to help Rhaegar up, sunlight glinting off the silver sword-and-star on his surcoat. They don't exchange any words, but there's no time to swell on it for Rhaegar briskly leaves his horse with the stablehand and his squire hops to in divesting him of his armor.

Half an hour passes as Arthur and Ser Barristan prepare, and Rhaegar takes his seat beside her, blatantly discontented. A good wife would placate him, say there's no disgrace in losing to an opponent such as Arthur, but all she has to do is remember how he'd looked at Lady Lyanna, and her mouth stays firmly shut.

The champion's tilt requires one more lance than Rhaegar's had, but ultimately Ser Barristan is unhorsed just as decisively. Ashara abandons all dignity, jumping to her feet and wildly cheering for her brother. Though Elia's applause is less ostentatious, happiness swells within her—a victory for Arthur is a victory for their homeland, after all.

She remembers the day he had arrived in Sunspear to squire for her uncle, brimming with excitement and fastidious in his training. To see him emerge triumphant in front of so many she feels is a well-deserved accomplishment. Ashara would receive a crown as pretty as she is, and Elia can think of no one more worthy of wearing it.

Lord Whent slides the blue winter roses onto Arthur's lance, and he directs his horse toward the royal stands as she'd anticipated. Except he doesn't stop in front of his sister—he stops in front of _her_. He places the crown into _her_ lap, and she gapes at him, nothing short of stunned.

"For the future queen," he declares, voice ringing out across the lists. It could be a trick of the light, but for a moment she thinks she sees his eyes flash over to Rhaegar, almost in challenge, before darting back to her. "Your beauty and grace put the very sun to shame."

She knows surely this must simply be out of respect, not in earnest, but nevertheless a smile grows. Though she may not honestly believe his words, he has publicly recognized her above all the more winsome women in attendance. The Starks clap respectfully at the display, Lady Lyanna animated as she talks with the littlest wolf, and what ill will she'd been feeling towards the girl fades.

"Thank you," she says to Arthur. She hands her circlet of yellow sapphires to Ashara and replaces it with the wreath of roses.

He flashes her a rare smile, then gallops off toward the stables. She can't help but stare after him, his ivory armor and Ny Sar's gleaming white coat just this side of blinding.

* * *

When purples and oranges begin to flood the sky, the guests file into the great hall for supper, and Elia takes her place on the dais next to a lukewarm Rhaegar. As ever, Arthur is diligently standing off to the side, scrutinizing the gentry for any potential threats.

Once everyone is settled, Lord Whent addresses the room. "Thank you to all who have voyaged to attend this tourney, most especially to our esteemed and gracious king. We are each of us humbled by your presence," he announces, glancing nervously at Aerys with every other word. "Without further delay, the traditional dance will start our supper. Your Graces, if you will?"

The heady scent of roses from the crown she still wears reminds her that she has a card to play. "Begging your pardon, my lord," she says, "but is it not customary for the Queen of Love and Beauty to select her own partner?"

A hush falls, her statement plainly startling Lord Whent. "Oh, well, yes, naturally," he stutters, "but I'd assumed—"

Elia cuts him off with a serene smile and gets to her feet. Resolute, she strides past Rhaegar and approaches Arthur instead. "Ser, do you care to join me?"

Something akin to panic crosses his face—perhaps he's recalling how atrocious of a dancer he was in their youth—but nevertheless he allows her to take his hand.

For once, the murmurs that run through the crowd give her vindictive satisfaction.

* * *

If she'd been hoping the matter could be forgotten, she doesn't get her wish. Later, while finessing out countless hairpins, Ashara comments, "People have been talking."

"People are always talking. What is it for this time?"

"You know full well what for. Your dance, it—"

"It was _nothing_." And it was. It _was_.

"It wasn't nothing. It was Arthur beating Rhaegar, it was him crowning you in front of everyone, it was you choosing to dance with him over your husband. I'm not accusing you of anything," she hurries on at Elia's scowl, "that's just what people are saying. You know how they live for their gossip."

"They're vermin." She shakes out her hair, grateful to finally rid it of its complicated ensnarement. "Though I confess I didn't expect they'd drag Arthur into it. Ridiculing me is one thing, but I'd have thought they'd have more respect for your brother."

"Arthur looked…" Ashara hesitates. "Elia, my brother is a wonderful man," she says carefully, "but a man all the same."

"Don't be absurd. He gave me the crown because he wanted to prevent me from suffering insult, that's it. He said so himself."

But that hadn't been the only thing he told her, had it? _I did not crown you false, princess_ , he'd said, his hand warm on her back, his voice too low to be heard by anyone but her. _You are indeed a beautiful woman._

She hadn't known what to say to that. She'd wanted to call his bluff, but he was so _sincere_ that it was hard not to believe him. And once she'd done so, she'd begun to…well, _notice_ him. The years had done him well, giving him handsomeness where once he'd been ordinary, breadth and height where once he'd been gangly and short, an evenly shadowed jaw where once it'd been patchy, a few scars where once there'd been none. She'd realized then that he's _not_ just a Kingsguard, but a hotblooded Dornishman of four-and-twenty, same as her.

And then afterwards, he'd seemed almost…

"Ash, there have been enough ill-done entanglements at this tourney without you inventing another."

The name _Brandon Stark_ lingers between them, and a bright red blush colors Ashara's cheeks. "Yes, my lady. But I didn't invent anything," she says. "It's the oldest tale, isn't it? A princess and a white knight?"


End file.
